


Armageddon Polka

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, The Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Erotic Electrostimulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Kinda PWP, M/M, Sexual Violence, Torture, basically fucking happens and it's all good times and sunshine and rainbows, dick torture, other stuff lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Slick and Droog make a bet, with some unexpected results.





	1. The Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not particularly great at writing pornography but well, i'm giving it my best shot. hope you enjoy

“What?”

Slick leans up on one elbow, gaze slitted with incredulity. Droog is the picture of confident, stretched out beneath him with hands behind his head, smug self-righteousness dancing in his eyes. Like a cat turfing by sprawling itself alongside its proclaimed food dish. You’re not allowed to touch this. It’s mine. “What the fuck do you _mean_ , it’s her?” Slick growls, always the type of man to bare his teeth at the slightest sound of objection.

“I meant what I meant. I don’t think he’s heading the operation.” Twisting away, Droog reaches into his coat, which lies slung over the corner of his nightstand, and pulls out a cigarette and his lighter. ‘A proper lighter,’ Slick reminds himself sneeringly, hearing Droog’s words echo in his head. That custom-made, refillable, ridiculously expensive lighter that only a candy-ass like Droog would purchase for himself. No real man gets his name carved in cursive on a damn lighter. Slick will take a Bic anytime. “Remember, when we saw them at the function, _she_ was explaining to _him_ , not the other way around.”

“A’ight, first off, just call it a _party_. The word ain’t poison. It weren’t no fuckin’ _function_.” To make his point, Slick gesticulates in some direction likely meant to be the direction of the ‘function.’ “And _second_ , I’m pretty certain she was just backtalkin’ him. I know a stupid bitch backtalkin’ when I see one.” He gives a pointed look.

“And you think a leader of a drug distribution chain would simply…take this ‘backtalk’ from one of his lackeys?” _Click_. A strand of smoke, seemingly almost solid in the light, floats up to the ceiling. There’s a crackle as Droog sucks in hard, humming almost silently under his breath as he exhales. Slick doesn’t think he realizes he does that. “Seems like a bad business model.”

“Maybe he’s bein’ calm in the face of adversity.”

“Something you’d also know a lot about, presumably.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Slick hisses, sitting up even farther. “And if that were a ‘bad business model’, then our crew would be the worst damn business in the city.” He pauses. “No, I know he’s runnin’ it. He’s got the books, he’s meetin’ with the network, and every time we seen him-- _including_ at the party--we seen _him_ tellin’ the _others_ where and when to deal, never him. Then he leaves.”

“What does that even tell us, Slick? It could mean anything. Second-in-command, maybe. I’ll give you that.”

“Well, how are you so sure _she’s_ the chief?”

Lips pursed in thought, Droog leans up as well. “Slick,” he starts carefully, “You know we’ve seen her move the bulk.”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve seen her with the largest quantities. No one else is ever trusted with those. She counts it out behind the scenes, and then we see her plant the street-level quantities for him to pick up.”

“And?”

“It’s simple. He isn’t telling them where to deal, he's taking orders from her."

“We _both_ know that she’s pro’ly just cookin’ it!”

“If that’s something we both know, apparently, then we’re certainly both smart enough to see that she was, and has been, giving him orders, right?”

“You’re _wrong_.”

For a minute, the two of them just look at each other. Furrowed brows, clenched hands, gritted teeth, frigid glares. Nobody else in the city would dare to tell either one of them, outright, that they’re wrong. The rebuke boils within them, the urge to win screaming in their ears to continue the fight.

What exactly will cow him? What exactly could be done to bring him fully to his knees?

Gone is the brotherhood that lies between them, though both know that’ll only last in this moment. Gone is the only minutes old memory of why they’re here at all, arguing over their next plan naked and sweat-sticky.

Of course, there will have to be some risk on Slick’s part, some sacrifice of his own ego, but he knows that he’s right. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem.  
Slick sees in his peripheral the lighter, nearly living testament to the things of Droog’s that are diametrically opposite things of Slick’s. _Not this time._

Hook him. Tempt him in.

“Anythin’ you want,” Slick states emphatically.

“Care to explain?”

“If you’re right in this, if that broad turns out to run their game, you get to do anythin’ you want to me.” He says it with the barest hint of a purr, fingers pressing tightly to Droog’s collarbone.

Another moment passes. An incredulous one. “...Anything I want.”

“Anythin’. But, y’know what that means for ya if ya lose, right?”

“Hm.” Slick grins a mouthful of shark teeth as Droog eyes him piercingly. He’s got him. If Droog turns down the bet, it’ll be as admitting defeat. So fearful of emasculation that he’d emasculate himself. But to accept the bet is to accept the possibility of even greater emasculation. The two both know what Spades Slick is capable of in the bedroom, half of which has by no means been permitted by Droog. “Are you certain?”

“Certain? Ain’t no way I’m boutta lose. Take this bet and your turkey’s cooked, shithead.” Pausing, Slick pulls himself up, murmuring viciously into Droog’s ear. “You’ll be nothin’ but a pile of hurt by the time I’m done with you.”

A firm pressure slides its way over Slick’s neck, Droog’s hand digging against the spine. “It’s a deal,” comes the icy whisper, breathed against Slick’s sneer. The vaguest trace of what could’ve been a smile passes over Droog’s face, there and gone again before almost anyone would be able to tell. The competition has been set. “Good luck.”

“You too, Droog. You too.”

 

♠♡♢♣

 

“Shit.”

Boxcars holds a screaming, bloodstained man in a bearhug, arms an efficient cage. “Ya don’ want me ta kill him, righ’, boss?” he calls over.

Slick doesn’t respond. Droog, equally silent, stands at his side. Before Slick lies the man he thought was leader, pale, shaking and looking at the floor. Before Droog lies the woman he thought was leader, knocked unconscious with a blooming black eye. And Boxcars, hovering confused, holds the thrashing, vehemently cursing leader, who kicks at the larger man’s shins as if he was riding a violent bicycle. “ _Shit_ ,” Slick enunciates, nudging a pebble with his toe. “God fuckin’ _damn_ _it_.”

“You were wrong,” Droog nonchalantly points out, lighting a cigarette, ignoring the bloody fingerprint he’s left about halfway down the paper.

“Yeah, prick, so were you,” Slick retorts icily.

“Boss?” Boxcars calls.

“Yeah, yeah, keep him alive! Jesus.” Slick looks down at the man. He saw him. He saw him holding the books. He saw the books on his desk at his damn house. And he saw him disperse and load up dealers. A lot of them. He swore up and down that this one was the leader. “Are ya sure you aren’t the boss here?” he asks, hoping for that less than 1% of a chance that he gets a different answer.

“Give it up, Spades.” Slick snarls as the words send a large bank of smoke directly in his face. The man remains silent. “It was a larger operation than we thought. That’s that.”

“‘That’s that?’ Whaddaya _mean_ ‘that’s that’?? And keep yer fuckin’ poison away from me.”

“You smoke as well. Don’t be a child.”

“Shut th’ fuck up.” Sucking hard on the back of his throat, Slick spits, watching with satisfaction the saliva fly in a perfect arc, landing on the man’s torn shirt. Serves that bitch right. “In any case, there can’t be a ‘that’s that,’ because we just up’n had ourselves a bet that ended in two toadies. Higher ups, but _toadies_.”  
“I’d say the bet ends here. No result.” Looking away, Droog goes to head over to where Boxcars is now pinning the leader on the ground, tying his hands while he shrieks something unintelligible about Boxcars’ grandmother.

“You were wrong, though.”

“Slick.” Droog turns back, exasperated. “What do you suggest? That I take the losing end of the bet because your little ego was wounded?”

Slick grinds his teeth. “I think there should be reparations, that’s all.”

“For what? And what do you think they should be? Because, whatever type of reparations they hypothetically were, you’d have to pay them too.”

“We can--”

“Drop. It. It’s over.”

“Listen to me, you fucking shit! We could interrogate these two, see who’s the higher up of thems!”

“I’m not--”

“I could give a _shit_ , I’m--”

“You--”

“Hi!” Suddenly, Clubs flounces up, as well as he can flounce with several heavy sacks clenched in his grip. “Hi guys! Hey,” he says, breathless. “I brought the...what are you two arguing about?”

“It ain’t none of your damn business, Deuce.”

“A bet.” Droog says those two words as if they were pieces of trash that he dropped in the garbage as he passed by. When Slick looks, the other man seems to be fully absorbed in checking the knots Boxcars just finished. Leader Actual is doing something akin to The Worm beneath the two.

“Ah,” Deuce replies, suddenly understanding. He offers up the sacks to Slick, who yanks them away and glowers off into a corner to look through them. “He’s mad about it?”

“From what I gathered, they both lost,” Hearts adds helpfully.

“You two should drop it as well,” warns Droog.

“Ta which I say,” says Hearts, persevering, “Ya both should take th’ fall. If it was a money bet, then I suppose it cancels out, cause ya’d jus’ be payin’ each other to pay back. But there’s my two cents.”

“Two cents can’t buy shit, Hearts, so keep your charity to yourself,” Slick snaps. The bags smell like attic and old blood. Scowling still, he digs around in the ones filled with cash, and then the ones filled with drugs. It’s more or less what they expected from this escapade, so he’s good with it. He just wants to put this behind him.

“I mean…” They can all tell that Deuce wants to agree, but he’s at least smart enough to stop talking. He meanders vaguely in the direction of the money and drug counting operation, but, upon remembering that Slick is in a state, balks, and simply stares from several feet back. “Is...it all there?”

“Yep.” The syllable is as clipped as a syllable can be. Slick hauls up the sacks, realizing it’s just as hard to storm off as it is to flounce carrying this sort of weight. “One of you dipshits wanna help me with this?” As Hearts hurries over from the leader, Slick can see Droog looking back at him, from behind the larger man’s back. Nothing is shown on his face. On the outside, his second-in-command is as apathetic as a winter lake. But he mouths something, and in watching a spark flaring deep inside those pale eyes, Slick realizes what he’s said.

'Anything.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry, a LOT of dirty things happen next chapter. stay tuned for excitement.


	2. Apocalypse Waltz!

“Close yer damn mouth, a’ight? The both a’ us agreed on me bein’ first.”

There’s the clicking noise of teeth, and Slick can see Droog’s mouth working. Biting his tongue. “I’ve just been the one doing the knotwork for our crew,” he says idly. A cautious animal, he circles the bed, hackles bristling. “You could’ve at least washed the sheets.”

The sheets did get washed, they’re just stained. But Slick won’t mention that to Droog. Any extra irritation will simply make his victory all the more glorious. He caved. He caved, and in this moment, Slick wants to bathe in it. No thoughts as to what that means for him, of course. “Are ya done yet?” he drawls, bored, picking his nails. “Lookin’ at the shit ain’t boutta make it disappear.”

He can see in his peripheral vision that Droog shoots him a glare. He doesn’t bother to honor it with eye contact. “Yes.” The word is clipped.

“Alright. Strip.” When Droog doesn’t move, Slick looks up from his nail excavation project, lifting his chin high. “What did I just say? Take your clothes off.”

There’s a moment like a vibration that runs a heavy, irate ripple through the air. Then, Droog wordlessly takes his jacket off, folding it and placing it on Slick’s chair before loosening his tie and undoing the buttons of his shirt with rough, begrudging movements. Slick leans back against his bureau to watch, slouched casually on one elbow. As he nears the bottom button, he looks up at his leader, face set in a look that Slick usually only sees just before Droog executes someone. “Are you going to undress as well?” he says, voice gilded with an air of nonchalance that barely covers the poison simmering beneath the surface.

“No,” Slick replies with a smile.

Droog’s jaw tightens; if it tightens any more, he’s likely to break something. He removes his dress shirt, folds it, and places it atop his jacket. Slick swears he can see the other man shaking as he peels off his undershirt, a grey tank top which seems to stick the sharp details of his torso in loathing of parting itself from them. Taking the opportunity to examine Droog’s body, Slick leers and runs his tongue across his incisors. He’s seen it many times before, but the fact that Droog feels such anger upon being forced to expose himself is indefensibly exciting. He watches as the shoes come untied, set to the side with socks tucked in. Then, the harsh pause before Droog undoes his belt. He bares his teeth, mostly turned from Slick’s view.

“Face me,” Slick says, hand caressing the front of his pants.

There’s no denying the shaking now, no need to strain or focus to try and make it out. The rage pours from Droog’s tremoring muscles, from his eyes as he lays them upon Slick half-reclined body, on the fingers that toy with the man’s hardening member. He unbuttons, unzippers, and lets his trousers and underwear fall around his ankles. His gaze doesn’t leave Slick’s face as he forcefully rips his feet free and grabs the fallen articles of clothing to fold them and place them with the rest. The gesture like a threat, he throws his hands up, a defeated and dismissive shrug rolling across taut shoulders. “What now?” he hisses.

“Just stand there.” As sharklike as before, Slick straightens, circling slowly around the fully nude body of his target. Inspecting him, as one would a piece of livestock, a car, a rare collector’s item. Droog’s frame is long, wiry, developed from physical labor rather than from deliberate exercise, with relatively broad shoulders and mildly furred around his stomach and genitals and ass. A specimen of a man. Slow and focussed, Slick places his hand on and palpates the flesh of Droog’s upper back, his buttocks and upper legs, his arms and chest. Droog’s muscles twitch and jerk beneath the scrutinization. It’s clear that there’s no way that he wants this, as he subversively tries to shake off the encroachment, and there’s no way that Slick cares. Eventually, Slick works his way around to the front, looking right into Droog’s eyes as he unabashedly cups his hand around the other man’s cock and balls, squeezing firmly as he relishes the absolutely revolted look on the other man’s face. If only he hadn’t agreed to not try and fend Slick off. He’s helpless. Subordinate.

“You should brace yerself,” Slick says.

It’s obvious that Droog knows what’s about to happen. The way his body steels is automatic.

The first blow lands on Droog’s cheekbone, knuckles ramming against the bridge of his nose. He rolls back, breath released through gritted teeth. The second, his stomach. And the third, as he curls over, is a sharp kick to the back of the knee. Fire sears its fanatical way through Slick’s veins. A blaze of wanton, violent delight, screaming and howling until he sees nothing but smoke. He winds up again and drives his foot into Droog’s ribcage, sending him to the floor. Again, again. And again. Droog has taken a good deal of beatings in his life, and is fully capable of taking them, a fact that Slick abuses to the greatest degree. “Piece! Of! Shit!” he barks, each word coupled with a  _ thump. _ “You fuckin’  _ asshole. _ Ain’t so high and mighty now, are ya?” He climbs atop Droog’s prone form, delivering a few more strikes to his face. He wants to see that beautiful body covered in bruises and scabs. He wants to ruin it. He wants Droog to bow to him.

_ Try to not kill him, _ his mind warns.

In the beginning, Droog was silent, enduring the assault with as much stoicism as only he can manage, but now he lets out rhythmic grunts of pain. It’s a good sign that it’s time to stop. Slick leans back, breathing heavy. His handiwork lays bleeding beneath him. Erect and pushing against his zipper, his shaft pounds in excitement. Quickly, he moves from straddling the other man to standing, grabbing Droog’s arm and yanking him. 

“Get the fuck up,” he orders. “Get the  _ fuck _ up!” 

Stumbling, Droog pushes himself upright, eyes half-closed with face a mess. His lip is split, his nose is bloody, and the beginnings of a massive trail of bruising ring his eye and creep down under his jaw. He spits out red onto Slick’s floorboards.

“Lie down.” A gesture is given to indicate the bed.

As Droog does so, Slick picks up one of the bundles of rope he has laid out, shaking out its length and holding the bight in one hand. Wordlessly, hasty in his anticipation, he lifts Droog’s leg and begins wrapping the rope around. His second lies motionless. His breaths are shallow and he stares at some point off to the side, avoiding direct eye contact in ironic contrast to earlier. The stillness is odd. An average fuck always entails fighting, endless fighting, the punching and biting and shouting, the eternal struggle to keep one another in place. Slick can’t say he’s accustomed to complete submission; it’s almost boring.

It won’t be for long.

When Slick finishes, he has Droog in a sling tie, on his back with legs secured and elevated, and arms knotted firmly behind his back. Having unzipped some time ago, he works himself over now, stroking his cock from head to base. With his other hand, he draws his switchblade from his pocket. The black metal shows no sign of reflectivity, shunning light on every part except for its wickedly glinting, honed edges. Just looking at it, hearing that keen  _ snk _ of it unsheathing, sends him right to another planet. One which so fills him with its presence that it brims over and there’s room left for his humanity. He shows his teeth with pointed ends on display in a bestial grimace. He slides up over Droog like dark oil over water, smelling his sweat, his blood, his anger and arousal.  _ Tick tick tick _ at the base of Droog’s throat catches his attention. The switchblade is settled across that point, digging slightly into the thick veins and arteries. “Christ, you got no idea how long I been waitin’ to get ya like this,” growls Slick, intoxicated.

“I have some idea,” Droog quietly replies. His voice is tight with pain.

Snuffling and nosing like a wild boar, panting and licking like a wolf in the throes of mating season, Slick tastes every inch of salty, pheromone-laden skin he can reach. Under his erection Droog’s stomach throbs, hot and swollen from the battering it received in the face of Slick’s shoe; he rubs himself on it, gasping in pleasure. He holds the blade to Droog’s throat for a while, until he can’t hold himself back--and when he can’t, he replaces it with a hard grip, just loose enough to not strangle his second. The switchblade is brought down to near his face, over Droog’s chest, and he draws it around the pectoral muscle. Sanguine wells up immediately and he presses his mouth to it to savor the sharp tang. His pelvic movements become more vigorous as he sucks and they elicit short moans that well up and escape from the core of his being. He can’t help but cut more, several thick lines running parallel to the original. It tastes so  _ good, _ so raw and powerful and abhorrent, and he drinks like it’s the water of life. It’s all he can do to not use his teeth, to not rip into muscle and down to bone, down to steaming viscera, devouring this thrumming, vulnerable, alive body until it’s nothing but more stains on the sheets.

He cuts himself short. He’ll climax before the piece de resistance is brought out if he keeps this up. With the proof of Droog’s own desire pushing stiff against him, he puts his weapon down and reaches to the side, to where his double-ring gag lies in wait. Procured just for this occasion, after much research into the subject of gags. Slick usually rolls with just his hands and teeth, and not any special implements, but this time is special. “You’re fuckin’ disgusting,” he sneers. “I knew you’d be turned on by this.” Droog has his eyelids shut completely now, lips set in a hard line. As if he could pretend, as if he could shut it out. Slick shoves a thumb roughly against that line, prying open the other man’s mouth so he can jam the gag in. Then, once he hauls Droog’s head up by the hair to make sure it’s strapped and buckled securely, he jumps off the bed, using the ropes crossing under Droog’s back to drag him to the edge. Every nerve in his body is engulfed in inferno. His fingers slip as he tries to undo his pants the rest of the way as quickly as he can. When he succeeds he pushes the waist down to bunch just under his ass, his member fully free and bobbing in the air, veins along the side pulsating with thick carnality. With Droog’s head just hanging over the side of the bed, Slick positions himself. Droog looks perfect like this, bleeding still from some of his injuries, mouth spread wide open, Slick’s tip just grazing the first ring of the gag, saliva already starting to pool and run down his face. Too perfect. In fact, it’s everything Slick could have possibly asked for out of this.

Then, he thrusts.

Droog’s esophagus bucks in protest as Slick sinks himself in all the way to the base of penis, not caring particularly about warming up. The moan he unleashes is barely human. He holds it, the choking of the man beneath him so unbelievably titillating that he’s proud when he’s able to continue without cumming right then. Out, and then back in, snarling rabidly at the sight of his cockhead bulging in Droog’s throat. Out, and Droog coughs, ejecting a long string of drool that sticks to his upper lip and nose. Slick lets him breathe for a moment before beginning to rapidly fuck his face. Ever the fighter, Droog tenses, stretching his jaw and flexing his esophageal muscles in an attempt to keep himself from gagging, but as Slick pushes past the back of his mouth and down his throat again his body spasms in an unconscious rejection of the intrusion. There’s a click as his teeth clamp down against the rings. This has little effect on Slick’s actions. Wrapping his hands around Droog’s neck, tighter this time, he pistons his hips and feels his glans slide back and forth underneath the trachea, under his thumbs. Each pump in is paired with a savage grunt, grunts that eventually trickle away into full-fledged moans, laced with expletives and half-finished words. “Holy  _ fuck _ ,” as Slick holds it again, even farther this time, strands of sticky warmth clinging to his balls and inner thighs. He releases Droog to gasp and attempt to eject all the drool that now coats his mouth in a slippery blanket, then he dives back in. “God, fuck,  _ fuck, Jesus!!” _ He’s getting close. He curls over, moving his grip to Droog’s head so he can press it close to him, obscene sucking noises coming from where they’re coupled, and he shoves himself down faster and faster until he slows, movements becoming irregular. “Ahhh, yes, yes,  _ yes, fuck, SHIT, FUCK--” _

One final thrust, deep in, and he’s orgasming ardently, pouring cum into the recesses of Droog’s gaping throat. He vibrates, fists clenching with white knuckles in Droog’s hair, ecstasy like lightning consuming his entire being. “ _ Goddd, Goddd, Jesus fuckin’ Christ, _ ” he groans. He stays until every last drop has been milked from his pounding cock. Then, he rips himself back, rolling away to flop on the bed beside his second-in-command. Droog wheezes, blowing spit and cum and blood out of his nose, unable to do much but let it drip down his face. Afterglow wraps Slick in its warm embrace, kissing him with dirtily comforting endorphins. After a minute, he glances over at his partner. He chuckles, then laughs, not even surprised. “Wow, ya look like fuckin’  _ trash. _ ”

Droog would undoubtedly be giving him a look of derision if his face wasn’t absolutely drenched in bodily fluids. There’ll be discoloration not only there, but all along his side and abdomen as well. Not to mention the scarring from the knife wounds. Oops. Gaze travelling down, he sees that Droog’s dick is, as expected, rigid and at attention. “Wishin’ you were free, huh?” Slick scoots down, leans up on his elbows, grazes his tongue over the bottom of the glans, tip pressing in the rounded cleft. The shaft jerks up in immediate response. “Wishin’ you could beat me? Fuck me like I did you? Hmm.” He licks again, even lighter, even slower. “I think that maybe ya need a couple’a days before it’s yer turn, Diamonds. In fact,” and here he stretches up, yawning cat-like, “maybe a little quality time by yerself would do ya some good.” He tucks himself back in his pants, grinning brutally. “I think I’ll go n’ shower, maybe make myself some grub. And you can stay right here. Sounds good?” At this Droog opens one eye, one frigid, stony eye, eyelashes gluey with his own spit, and he gives Slick the meanest look that he can. It’s unconvincing, at best. “Good. I’ll be back for ya later. Have fun.” He bounces off the bed, cracks his back, and exits his room, leaving Droog bound, gagged, and infuriated. 

Slick heads to the bathroom, smug. That went just as flawlessly as he had hoped. It almost makes him forget that Droog has yet to take a turn.


	3. Entr'acte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little intermission. droog's turn will come next and soon.

Droog doesn’t come out of his room the next day, not until evening. But Slick can tell when he does by the sudden thunderclap of silence that swallows the low murmur of Hearts and Clubs. The silence that is only disturbed by the unwitting bubbling of dinner on the cooktop. There’s no need to look up from the newspaper. In fact, Slick buries himself farther in, refusing to look up, refusing to give any sort of reassurance or confirmation in response to the wildly bemused gazes he’s sure are falling upon him. The thin paper is like a fortress, creating a corner of the city and its headlines for him to hide himself behind. And if they can’t see his face they won’t be scanning for his reaction.

There’s a sudden rush of movement, which is halted by Droog in a curiously twisted voice; “Come any closer and I’ll beat you senseless.” A pause. “I’m serious, Hearts. Don’t push it.”

Slick sneaks a secretive look out to see Hearts clenching the kitchen first-aid kit in his whitened hands, and then to Droog’s back, which is turned to him as he gingerly washes his hands and face in the sink. His shirt is freshly tucked and the sleeves are pushed up over his elbows. Even from behind, there are bruises visible. A thread of yellow on the side of his neck, only a preview. A splotch of purple on his cheekbone.

“So,” Slick says, eyes narrowing, drawing his paper up as if the gesture could be so casual. “You’re not gone for good, then.”

He watches Droog’s fingers grip hard on the edge of the counter, beads of water gathering there. Slowly, arthritically, Droog turns. Purple across the bridge and red puffed meat of his nose. One eye swollen almost shut. “No,” he says, voice barely audible. “I’m not.” He turns more, fully, to face them all. Yellow thread becomes green and blue bar, stretching over his Adam’s apple. Where his lip is split and inflamed, his tongue catches, and the air comes out strangely when he speaks. And then there’s the matter of the mosaic that cradles the skin below that swollen eye, every color conceivable in large blotches and run through at the point of his cheek with scabs, almost hidden by the garish patterning.

“And all three of you,” he rasps, gesticulating at them with a note of hostility, “All three of you had better get your stares out now.”

There’s a moment where no one knows what to say, and they look to Droog as if expecting some sort of clarification. He stands there with his mangled face and his wheezing breaths and his eyes of deep winter frost, challenging them to look, challenging them to look away. Slick re-erects the newspaper wall as the other two continue to dwell in shock.

“There, you should be fine,” Droog says at last. Slick hears the sink turn back on.

Dinner is soup again. Slick says idly over a spoonful that he’s really tired of eating soup. While Hearts nods quietly, restraining irritation, Slick can sense that Droog is thankful that this is tonight’s meal. It seems like it’s a little difficult for him to eat.

It’s after, as Slick is cleaning out his bowl and rinsing his spoon, that he feels Hearts’ huge hand settle firmly on his bicep. “Ya gotta stop pullin’ this shit, boss,” he murmurs confidentially, positioning himself so that his body provides a corner against the counter that they can speak within. When Slick looks up at him, the man’s face is sober, mouth tight and eyes shielding disrespect. There is no excuse for disrespecting him, even when he’s done things worthy of it. Never. “You can’t.”

“What was that?” His voice is louder, on purpose.

“ _Slick._ ” Hearts holds his breath for a second, then lets it out, long in an attempt at calming himself. “Droog looks like he got hit by a damn car. And it ain’t th’ first time--but this shit by far is the most brutal you’ve lain on ‘im. Whatever you two get up ta alone, whatever, I ain’t gotta stick my nose in it. But he can barely use his fuckin’ mouth, and I think that if you’re too rough on ‘im that it affects the whole Crew. Seein’ as he won’t even come outta his damn room an’ all--and what if we had to--”

“Shut up.” Slick growls. He throws the cupboard door open and violently shoves his bowl in. It makes a resounding crash as it suddenly shifts every single other dish, and he feels a nagging pit of anxiety deep in his intestines. “Shut the fuck up. You’re right, it ain’t your business. Never was. Never will be. Got it?”

“Yeah, but--”

“He _let_ me do it. And if you’re so damn worried, he gets a turn too. Eye for eye. So it doesn’t fuckin’ matter. He’ll sit on his ass, and he’ll get better, and then at some point he’ll get whatever little fix he needs to feel secure again, and shit if he won’t make me pay for every fuckin’ bruise I made. He’ll be right as rain with a newly-inflated ego, and _it does not involve you,_ so it'd be in your best interest to shut the fuck up.”

Blooming understanding fills the air, pairing the exasperated look on Boxcars’s face. His jaw is clenching hard.

“Hearts.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. Clear?”

“...Yeah, boss. Yeah, we’re clear.”

Slick wishes Hearts hadn’t said a thing. He can too easily imagine his own features in a match to Droog’s, with the same swelling, the same purples and blues and greens, the same defeat.


End file.
